


The Suit

by earthy



Series: The Suit [1]
Category: Batman Beyond
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-29
Updated: 2007-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthy/pseuds/earthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who's DG?" he asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Setting:** sometime early on in the series
> 
> **Notes:** Batman was created by Bob Kane and is now probably owned by Warner Brothers, DC Comics, and other people who do not include myself. I'm just playing, not making money, so please don't sue me.
> 
> **Notes, Part Two:** This story contains elements from the Knightfall arc, Nightwing, Batman Beyond, and a bit of...something else at the end. Just so you know. It was written between 2005 and 2007.

**I.**

A chauffeur needs an appropriate suit, but Terry has never had the time or inclination to get one because quite frankly, he was not expecting to ever be doing anything remotely resembling driving a cranky billionaire to galas in a sleek black Cadillac with a nicely hidden Batsuit-sized space near the glove compartment. Anyway he assumes he can bum one off Wayne and save himself the embarrassment of more ecstatic motherly pride for a son who finally has more need of a tux than a juvie uniform.

When he mentions it Wayne stares at him blankly, apparently floored by the possibility that a boy could grow up without ever needing a nice suit. Terry points out that he'd assumed there would be only one suit he'd need for this job. Wayne smirks, takes up his cane, and tells Terry to follow him.

They end up somewhere in the east wing; Terry isn't quite following all the twists and turns of the manor, since he spends most of his time underneath it. There's something a bit twisted about the fact that he knows Wayne Manor's secret lair better than he knows the rest of the place. Wayne, of course, would know every inch of it blindfolded, which is a bit funny because as far as Terry can tell, he never goes anywhere except the cave and the living room. Probably doesn't even own a bed.

Wayne takes him to a bedroom which obviously hasn't been used in living memory. There are dust covers on all the furniture and nothing to distinguish it from a drab guest room, except that when Wayne pulls open the wardrobe, Terry can see it's full of clothing. Wayne hesitates in front of it, then steps aside. "Take what you need," he says. His voice sounds a bit tighter than usual.

Terry sticks his head into the closet, chokes on the dust, and eyes the array. A few suits, nice shirts, slacks; nondescript, the sort of thing he assumes most rich kids have. They look a bit small for Wayne. Terry hopes he won't be expected to iron something. Shouldn't there be a butler around for that? He fingers the collar of one of the shirts and notices initials stitched into the inside. He checks another; the same letters. They're on the pants and jackets as well. They'd probably be on the underwear too if there were any.

"Who's DG?" he asks.

Wayne doesn't answer. "I'll meet you downstairs," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The explosion is a welcome distraction.

**II.**

The champagne tastes flat. He has to remind himself why he's here, which hands to shake, which toast to make. He knows it's important to Bruce Wayne, but the trouble is that he doesn't always remember that he _is_ Bruce Wayne. He may no longer wear that other suit, but he can't slough off the skin of that identity. He's spent so long wrapped in mythos he hardly knows how to be a regular man, even after years of practice.

He knows he can't get by like that anymore. He's tired of watching Powers wrest the Wayne Enterprises from him, tired of seeing his father's legacy dragged through the mud, tired of feeling like he's just taking up the perfumed space of the elite. He had been resigned, if not content, to spending the rest of his days avoiding the news and nursing his demons; then McGinnis knocked on his door.

He can't decide what really caused him to accept the boy. He's so young, so angry, so earnest. Like Bruce was. Like they all were. Determined to prove something. To find a purpose. To make things better, or die trying.

That's what will happen, you know, Bruce tells himself roughly. He'll die, or else he'll end up hating you and leaving you just like all the others. Bruce knows it isn't fair to think this way, but he's hard-pressed to be lenient when his old bones are aching from standing so long and the society columnist opposite him keeps asking for his opinion on hair gel products.

The explosion is a welcome distraction.

There is the requisite screaming, startled shouts, ducking and running. A burly man is laughing maniacally from the balcony, which is surrounded by billowing smoke. "Stinkin' fascists!" he screams. "You eat your canapes while the proletariat starves! There's only one solution – _blow it all up_!"

Terry is at Bruce's elbow. "Show time," he says quietly, a wicked grin on his face. Then he's gone.

Bruce has the sinking suspicion that he didn't see the shadowy figure already making its way up to the balcony.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, Terry thinks, is probably the best after-school job in the universe.

**III.**

The thing about the suit is that it makes you think you're a god, an invincible enforcer of Justice, a Protector Of The Weak, Defender Of The Defenseless. Terry can hold his own against a few Jokerz or jocks of the Nelson persuasion, but he's prepared to face his general inadequacy in the realm of real butt-kicking – except that with the suit, he doesn't have to. He can flick a few switches, ignite the jets in his boots, and fly. He can throw a punch or ten or twelve and never have to worry about breaking a finger or missing a target. He can tap his belt and become, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

This, Terry thinks, is probably the best after-school job in the universe.

When he makes it to the balcony Stan is still spouting off something or other about inequality and economic class. He takes a break from it to inform Batman that he's on Stan's list of socio-economic terrorists.

"Guess you'll have to blow me up, too," says Terry pleasantly as he plants a fist in Stan's face.

The fight doesn't go well. Terry's been sucking it up and following Wayne's training sequences to the letter, but that doesn't change the fact that he's still new to this whole Batman thing and Stan is twice his size. Terry could probably dodge him all night, but that wouldn't solve the problem of the worried socialites below or the detonator Stan's thumb keeps inching dangerously toward.

Terry's gotten in a few good hits, but Stan shows no sign of slowing down; in fact, his next punch knocks the wind out of Terry's lungs with an audible woosh and sends him flying into a huge pile of debris. Stunned, he can hear screams from below and more of Stan's maniacal laughter. Forget the spinning room, forget the pounding pain in his chest; got to get to that trigger before Stan manages to get lucky….

"You're a mess, aren't you?" says a mild, amused voice from somewhere above his head.

Terry springs to his feet, half an eye on Stan, who is picking up a pillar rocked loose by the first blast, half an eye on this new crazy, a fifty-something in an impeccable, if slightly mussed, tux. Terry wonders what kind of lunatic makes his way toward danger rather than away from it. Aside from himself, of course.

"Get out of here," Terry hisses, turning back to face Stan. "It's dangerous."

"Right," says the man, and Terry can hear the smirk in his voice. "How many times have I –" He stops, suddenly getting a good look at Terry. At Batman. The man's entire body tenses, and pulls a gun out of nowhere.

_"No_ ," says Terry, and hurls himself at Stan, who seems a bit too preoccupied by screaming and getting ready to throw the very large pillar at Terry to notice that a man with a firearm is about to blow his head off.

A lot of things happen nearly at once.

Stan stumbles, finally noticing the lunatic racing toward him.

The man smacks Stan in the face with the gun, drops to the ground in a move that is entirely too fast and graceful for someone his age, and kicks Stan's legs out from under him.

Terry's leap takes him straight into the man's back, the momentum bowling them both over as Stan drops the pillar exactly where Terry and this idiot would have been had Terry not managed to direct their roll out of Stan's way.

"What the hell are you doing?" the man demands, wrenching himself away from Terry and returning his gun to a holster Terry realizes is cleverly hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket. Probably custom-made.

"Looks like I'm saving your life," Terry growls, noting that Stan appears to be down for the count. That was some move.

"Or just getting in the way," the man retorts, giving Terry a full once-over. "Who are you?"

Terry blinks. "I'm Batman."

The man snorts. "Yeah right."

Terry doesn't feel like arguing. "And you are…?"

The man pulls out a badge. "Blüdhaven PD. Stan's got a date with our judicial system. You'll have to get in line." He eyes Terry warily. "Assuming you are who you say you are."

So much for the suit's ability to instill righteous fear. "Look," says Terry, feeling annoyed, "If you think –"

"You might want to take care of that detonator before the police get here," says Wayne's voice. Terry turns to find the old man standing in the shadows looking at the two of them with an unreadable expression.

"My god," says the Blüdhaven idiot. "I thought –"

"Now," says Wayne sharply.

Terry does as he's told.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never wore that suit. Not like he does."

**IV.**

"I thought he was you," Dick confides in him later, sounding a bit sheepish.

"He is me," says Bruce. "Every part of me that matters."

Dick rolls his eyes. "Please don't tone down the drama after fifty years or anything." His radio crackles and he pulls it from his waistband, clips off a few words to a partner in a squad car Bruce assumes is stationed somewhere nearby. Bruce doesn't ask what Stan did in Blüdhaven or why Dick is in town after so many years to chase what is ostensibly a relatively low-priority hoodlum who is only set apart from the usual Blüdhaven lowlife by his penchant for hitting the detonator faster, more frequently, and in more diverse locations. That's Dick's business, and Bruce has long since learned not to stick his nose into Dick's business unless asked.

"You told me it wouldn't happen again," Dick continues quietly. "After Tim, you said...Well, what the hell, you've said a lot of things over the years and then just gone and done your own thing, haven't you?" He seems to realize how harsh his voice sounds, and suddenly he looks embarrassed, a shadow of the scrawny thirteen-year-old boy who was unable to meet Bruce's gaze after making a mistake, no matter how big or small. Dick always took it to heart, blamed himself, refused to accept anything less than absolute perfection. He was clever and spunky and always had a witty retort, but Bruce was never fool enough to ignore the pain Dick hid so well. Later he'd dropped a lot of the humor, at least in Bruce's presence, and gotten on with teenaged rebellion and a whole lot of anger, but the pain was still there and Bruce could still see it better than anyone. Dick lets his pain come through in his anger, immediately regrets it, then does it all over again. Nothing's changed.

"He wanted this," says Bruce. "He wanted to do some good."

"And dressing up like a flying rodent was his only option," says Dick coldly.

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "You didn't seem to mind."

"I never wore that suit. Not like he does."

And that's the crux of the matter, Bruce realizes. It's not just that he's taken on a new protegé; it's the suit that protegé wears, the name he's adopted. The fact that Terry is doing what Bruce never really let any of the others do: he _is_ Batman.

"I didn't give it to him; he took it," Bruce growls, though he knows it's inadequate.

"But you let him keep it." Dick runs an aggitated hand through his hair. Bruce is surprised to see how much of it is gray. "Look, how old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? I'm not saying he doesn't want it as much as the rest of us did, but have you ever considered that maybe you should've talked him out of it?"

Bruce smirks. "Barbara said the same thing."

Dick's face freezes for about half a second before he grimmaces. "Yeah. Barbara. Listen, I'd rather not be around when she gets to the scene, if it's all the same to you..."

Someone coughs politely from behind them. Bruce turns to find that Terry has returned, back in his borrowed dress clothing, playing the part of a frightened errand boy who ran off at the first sign of trouble and is now sheepishly coming out of hiding just in time to miss all the danger. He'd have the part down pat if he weren't doing such a poor job of hiding the glare he's sending Dick's way.

Bruce performs the introductions. "Terry McGinnis, Dick Grayson."

They shake on mutual animosity, leaving Bruce to wonder how he gets himself into these situations.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grayson gets a weird look on his face like he's trying to swallow a bug, or maybe just a laugh. Terry didn't think he could like this guy any less, but he's just been proven wrong.

**V.**

I'm scared, Terry thinks. Scared, terrified, embarrassed to have left my employer in danger while I ran like the yellow little twip I am. I've got nothing to do with explosions and would like to run home to mommy now, thanks. That's my statement and I'm sticking to it.

It doesn't help, of course, that while Terry giving this stellar performance to the bored-looking Gotham PD drone in front of him, he can see Grayson out of the corner of his eye sending him surreptitious looks that are no doubt designed to floor whatever dregs Grayson usually finds himself up against. Terry's not sure whether he should be flattered or annoyed to be on that list.

Really he'd rather just call it a night – his ribs are still aching from Stan's unceremonious throw and Terry already knows he's going to fall asleep during the chem test tomorrow – but it looks like Wayne is going to be tied up in red tape for a little while longer, if the hoard of people around him are any indication. Wayne looks really pleased about that: he keeps trying to catch the Commissioner's eye, but Gordon isn't giving him the time of day, busy as she is directing her troops, reassuring civilians, and staying very clear of Grayson.

Grayson, however, must have a very severe death wish, because he heads Terry's way as soon as the GPD idiot is done getting Terry's statement.

"Nice performance," he says. "I almost believed you for less than a second."

"Gotham's not full of the same stunning intellect as Blüdhaven," Terry replies. "A little misdirection goes a long way." He supposes Grayson would know about that, being from Blüdhaven and all. Terry's heard the corruption in the ranks there puts Gotham lowlifes to shame. He wonders, not for the first time tonight, how Wayne knows this loser. And more importantly, just how much this loser knows about Wayne.

Grayson shrugs. "Just thought you might want to work on your alibi. The running, ducking, and covering one only goes so far before even the dumbest cop starts to get a clue."

"Well I guess you'd know."

Grayson gets a weird look on his face like he's trying to swallow a bug, or maybe just a laugh. Terry didn't think he could like this guy any less, but he's just been proven wrong.

"I wasn't going to shoot him, you know," Grayson says in a low voice.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Terry says automatically. Because, of course, he wasn't there. Batman was.

"Right." Grayson gives him a hard look. "Listen, kid, we've got to talk."

"Funny, I thought that was what we were doing."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"You gonna to do it?"

The look on Grayson's face is one Terry's seen before. His mom often gets that way when she's debating strangling him, but that whole familial tie thing is getting in the way. All in all, it's definitely not the way Terry wants some loony police officer looking at him. Like he knows something Terry doesn't. Like he's pitying him. Like Terry is some little kid who needs to have his nose wiped and his hand held and his decisions made for him.

One thing Terry's mom doesn't do in this sort of situation, however, is grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against a wall. Terry's rib cage is now screaming bloody murder, but Grayson doesn't seem to care. Terry might be surprised at Grayson's vehemence if he weren't so busy trying to wriggle free and punch the jerk in the face.

"Listen," says Grayson through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. Trust me on this. Get out while you still can."

"Why?" Terry demands. "Because you'll bash my face in if I don't?"

" _Enough_ ," says Wayne, who has somehow appeared between them and has what looks like an excruciatingly painful grip on Grayson's arm. "You're making a scene."

Terry realizes that a few cops and socialites have paused to stare at them. Even Gordon is looking their way, and Terry is a little surprised that she's not the one breaking them up. But no, she seems fine with letting Wayne handle it, although her lips are pressed together in that firm way that means business. Terry thinks it's probably just as well she hasn't gotten involved, since he likes his head still attached to the rest of his body.

"Bruce," Grayson begins in a dangerous voice.

"Let go of him," says Wayne. " _Now_."

Grayson does so. Terry doesn't rub his aching chest because he won't give Grayson the satisfaction.

"Terry, get the car," Wayne continues. He sounds tired.

"Bruce…" Grayson tries again.

"No, Dick. Another time."

Terry turns on his heel and heads for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How much does he know?" Terry asks, his voice carefully neutral.

**VI.**

The first half of the ride home is tranquilly silent. Though he's only known Terry a few months, Bruce has come to understand that silence, in Terry's case, rarely means anything other than a calm before the storm. And given tonight's events, not to mention the way Terry's hands are gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white, Bruce is expecting more than a little thunder and lightning.

It starts out normally enough. "Your friend," Terry begins. "How well do you know him?"

Well enough to know I can count on him. Well enough to know he's the most loyal friend I've ever had. Well enough to know that despite all that he'll never stop being a royal pain in the ass.

"Well enough," says Bruce.

Terry frowns, keeping his eyes stoically on the road. Reflected streetlamp light makes criss-cross patterns on his face. Bruce wonders if he knows that his frown is really more like a spoiled little child's pout.

"How much does he know?" Terry asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Bruce smirks into the darkness. "He knows enough."

"He's dangerous," says Terry.

Bruce snorts. "Not for me." He doesn't say the next thing that comes to mind, but the words sit there thickly in the silence between them: _Maybe for you._

Terry's frown deepens. "I don't like him."

"Yes, I got that impression."

They're nearing Wayne Manor now; Bruce can see its outline on the horizon, and he thinks fleetingly of the warm fire and Ace at his feet before he realizes that that thought is awfully close to something a tired old man would think. He grimaces and shoves it from his mind.

Terry sighs loudly. "All right, enough with the cryptic old man vibe. Tell me the truth. Who is this Grayson guy?"

Bruce knows he could continue to beat around the bush, or change the subject entirely, or sternly demand that they not discuss this at all. But he's talking to a boy who came to him for help, who figured out his biggest secret, and really, what harm can it do?

"He's my son," says Bruce.

They are blinded by the bright headlights of an oncoming car as Terry abruptly swerves into the other lane. Bruce feels himself involuntarily trying to hit the brake as horns screech, brakes squeal, and angry voices start yelling. Of course the noise is relatively muted by the Cadillac's thick glass, but it doesn't take much imagination to read lips and count fingers.

"Your _son_?" says Terry, madly turning the steering wheel to put them back into the right lane.

"Adopted. And if you get us killed before we get home you're fired," says Bruce grimly.

"But you never – But that would mean –"

"Drive first, yap later," Bruce snaps.

Terry falls silent for a moment, then says suddenly, "Um. I guess I'm wearing his suit."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One sleepless night, two fights with Matt, and one spectacularly failed chem test later, Terry is standing outside of Wayne Manor wondering what exactly he ought to say to the old man.

**VII.**

One sleepless night, two fights with Matt, and one spectacularly failed chem test later, Terry is standing outside of Wayne Manor wondering what exactly he ought to say to the old man. A sort of apology, something along the lines of, "Hi there, sorry I spent so much time bad-mouthing your son to your face; if I'd known you were related I would've done it behind your back"? Or maybe just play it cool, not mention it at all. Knowing Wayne, he'll just pretend it never happened. Seems to be the way he deals with anything he doesn't want to think about, and Terry is pretty darn certain Grayson's appearance falls under the heading of "emotional inconveniences we will not be discussing" in Wayne's book.

His first inkling that something's wrong isn't so much the silence of the manor (he's used to that) or the fact that Wayne is not there to greet him (Wayne usually hides out in the cave and only shows himself when he's good and ready), but that Ace is nowhere to be found. Terry's gotten used to the mutt's incessant growling in his presence and is even starting to get over the urge to kick him, particularly since there is no doubt that the Batdog can take him in two seconds flat (he has the bite marks to prove it). Yes, the lack of Ace's glaring black eyes watching his every move is definitely a clue that not all is well in Batville.

The other big clue is that someone has definitely been into the Batcave long before Terry got there tonight. Terry's relatively certain of this because the clock is open and the carpet in the room is littered with broken bottles and other obvious signs of a struggle. The lack of both Batdog and cranky old millionaire is beginning to look a bit too ominous for Terry's comfort.

He races down the stairs into the cave, managing (just barely) not to trip and crack his skull open. Bats screech and take flight somewhere over his head, but he's not paying too much attention to them as he scans the dimly-lit cavern, looking for signs of an intruder. But amazingly, down here everything seems exactly like it always is: damp, dark, untouched.

Which just means whoever broke in thinks he's clever.

Grabbing a Batarang from one of the shelves nearby, Terry flips on the lights and tenses, scanning the shadows. He waits for about five million years before he catches a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He lets loose the Batarang before he even realizes he's done it, and is rewarded with a yelp from behind the big coin and a soft growl from somewhere further back in the darkness.

"Geez, you're going to cut someone's head off with those things," says a familiar voice. Terry hears some scuffling, then the definite scratching noise of the Batarang being pulled out of the wall. "Your aim is terrible," continues the voice cheerfully as its owner steps out into the dim light.

Terry's not surprised to see him, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it, either. "What are you doing here?" he demands.

"You mean, why am I skulking suspiciously in the shadows?" Grayson smirks. He's flipping the Batarang around his knuckles in an absent-minded way which Terry sternly tells himself is not cool at all. "I'd like to say I came just to make you jittery, but I was hoping to talk to Bruce. Obviously he's, er, out. And your dog has been hiding back here trying to rip my hands off for the last fifteen minutes."

"He's got taste," says Terry dryly. He hustles over to the coin. Upon closer inspection he can see two glinting black specks which might be eyes in the darkness, just out of reach. Ace growls when Terry reaches out a hand to him.

"Yeah," says Grayson. "Taste."

"He's scared," says Terry, surprised. "Ace never gets scared. What gives?"

Grayson frowns. "Off-hand I'd say what happened upstairs spooked him."

Upstairs. Broken glass. Obvious forced entry. No sign of Wayne anywhere. "What happened?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sound too panicked.

"That's what I'd like to know."

Terry sizes him up. "You mean you don't?"

"No," says Grayson grimly. "But I think I might have an idea."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's then that Bruce realizes he's been kidnapped by the two most idiotic criminals known to man.

**VIII.**

It's dark and cold, and he has a headache to end all headaches. He's relatively certain that it was induced by a blow to the head with a blunt object – a vase from the living room, if memory serves. Something ugly and pointless in his mind, but Alfred liked it. He's a little sad to think of it gone: so few of Alfred's touches are left in the manor these days.

But other things are more immediately important than an old man's sentimentality. He needs to know where he is, get an idea of his surroundings, piece together what happened and what needs to happen. As his eyes get used to the dark and the pounding in his head fades to a dull ache, he realizes he's in the back of a truck, and if the bouncing is any indication, they're on a highway.

And he's not alone. There are seven other presumably unconscious people-shaped lumps around him, all bound and gagged, as he realizes he is. This is going to make getting out a bit more complicated, particularly as he can't seem to find his cane anywhere. Being beaten, gassed, and thrown into the back of a truck has done nothing for his aged muscles. For a moment he lets himself fervently, angrily wish he were thirty years younger. But it won't do any good to dwell. He hauls his protesting body up sitting position just as the truck screeches to a halt, nearly throwing him down again.

The abrupt stop appears to have nudged the others into wakefulness, if the moaning and groaning is any indication. Bruce has barely managed to face himself toward the back of the truck before it's suddenly swung wide open, and two piercing flashlight beams temporarily blind him.

"They're awake already," says a familiar voice as the beams sweep over Bruce and the others. "I told you this was a bad idea, man."

From the lights Bruce can see the other captives a bit better, and he realizes he recognizes them vaguely from television and the society pages. Their names mean money: Vreeland, Hill, Van Dorn, Fallbrook….He finds he can place an illustrious name with each face. These are the cream of the elite crop. So it's really about ransom. Bruce idly wonders what the kidnappers thinkit's about.

"You've already messed us up once, and I had to bail you out," says a second voice, this one thoroughly annoyed. "What do you know?"

"I know socialite scum, man," says the first voice petulantly. "Shoulda just let me blow them all up."

"Right," sneers the second, "because that worked so well last time. Listen, Stan, if you want justice you've gotta come at it from the right angle, you know?"

Right. Justice. Bruce groans inwardly.

But it's worse than that. As they lower the flashlights, Bruce recognizes Mad Stan, his wrists bearing broken handcuffs from his adventures last night. The other man is older, sandy-blonde hair liberally laced with gray, and just as mean-looking as Stan. Inexplicably, he's wearing army camouflage pants, a black mask across his eyes, and a red, white, and black sports jersey with letters spelling out "Nite-Wing" across his chest.

It's then that Bruce realizes he's been kidnapped by the two most idiotic criminals known to man.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grayson's reflection scratches his chin. "Well, the costume's got shoddy execution, and the color scheme is all wrong. And I seem to recall Nightwing having a sort of, I dunno, godlike grace that Ryerstad doesn't quite manage…."

**IX.**

"You have _got_ to be kidding," says Terry, looking at the computer monitor.

"What, you think Gotham's got a monopoly on psychos?" says Grayson. "I'm telling you, we've got Ryerstad linked to Stan six ways from Sunday. Subtlety's not exactly his forte. He's constantly escaping out of jail down in Blüdhaven - we can't seem to keep him away from his one-man war against crime. Remind you of anyone we know?"

Terry snorts. "Yeah. And I suppose he and Mad Stan make up the Dynamic Duo."

Terry can see Grayson's grimace reflected on the screen. "Something like that. Anyway, lately I've been getting the impression that Ryterstad's one-man army got a new recruit. The stunts he's been pulling, particularly the explosives he's been using -"

"So you're saying this guy who thinks he's a vigilante has been running around blowing stuff up and kidnapping Blüdhaven socialites, and now he's hooked up with Stan and started doing the same thing in Gotham?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

"Why?"

Grayson hesitates, tapping his fingers annoyingly on the back of Terry's chair. "Justice."

"I think they're calling it certifiable craziness these days."

Grayson shakes his head. "Ryerstad thinks he has a score to settle. He wants to clean up the Haven, and he wants to do it his way. Stan just happens to be the sort of guy who's easily called in on that sort of activism."

"You mean he puts together a fast, cheap load of dynamite for the right cause."

"Like getting rid of the corrupt upper crust."

"Which explains why Wayne's name was on the list." Terry frowns. He really doesn't like how Grayson seems to know everything about everything, but Terry reflects that punching Grayson in the face is not going to help bring Wayne back, or help any of the other kidnapping victims. And getting everyone back sooner rather than later sounds like a good plan if the brains behind the operation are Stan and this Blüdhaven psycho. Still, he gets the sneaking suspicion that Grayson still knows more than he's letting on. "And how do we know this Ryerstad guy's not the real Nightwing gone totally bonkers?" Terry asks suddenly.

Grayson's reflection scratches his chin. "Well, the costume's got shoddy execution, and the color scheme is all wrong. And I seem to recall Nightwing having a sort of, I dunno, godlike grace that Ryerstad doesn't quite manage…."

Terry swivels the chair around to face him. Not surprisingly, Grayson is looking awfully amused with himself. Terry eyes him, looks over at the case of costumes by the wall, and then back at Grayson. "Huh," he says. "And here I'd pegged you for a Robin."

The grin gets a bit wider. "Who says I wasn't?"

Terry narrows his eyes. "Is there any costume over there you _didn't_ wear?"

Grayson pretends to consider. "Well, Babs was always a little particular about letting anyone else play dress up with the Batgirl threads, but there was this one time -"

Terry hops out of the chair and heads for his backpack. "Forget it, I don't want to know," he says.

He's nearly changed when he hears Grayson's voice from across the room. "So you know where to find them, I suppose?"

Terry pulls the cowl over his face, adjusts his gloves, and just barely suppresses the urge to throw a well-placed Batarang. "No," he says grimly. "But I'll figure it out."

"Really." Grayson is now throwing some sort of transmitter up and down and catching it casually in his right hand, like he thinks he's cool or something.

Terry begins to think he knows where this is going. "No way."

Grayson shrugs. "It'd be a lot faster if you used the tracking device I planted on Stan to find them."

"And you'd just hand that transmitter over and run along, I bet."

"Even the real Batman needed back up now and then."

Terry glares furiously at him. "I _am_ Batman," he says in a low, dangerous voice.

Grayson snatches the transmitter out of the air and meets Terry's gaze without flinching. They stand there for a good thirty seconds, the only movement or noise the bats shuffling quietly above them.

"I don't know if Bruce told you…" Grayson starts at last.

"That you're his son," says Terry.

Grayson's eyes shift away from Terry's for a moment. "Then you know why I have to go with you."

Terry frowns. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"I'm not asking you to like it, I'm asking you to do it," says Grayson shortly.

Like father, like son. Terry has to stop himself from smirking too broadly. "All right," he says finally. He looks over at the costume case. "You, uh, want to take one for old time's sake?"

Grayson half-smiles and pockets the transmitter. "It'd take too long to figure out which one to wear. Your car or mine?"

Terry raises an eyebrow. "Obviously," he says, "you haven't seen my car."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce supposes he ought to be fearing for his life, but in fact, he's having a pretty decent evening, all things considered. Which is more than can be said for his captors.

**X.**

Bruce supposes he ought to be fearing for his life, but in fact, he's having a pretty decent evening, all things considered. Which is more than can be said for his captors.

"This dress is a _Versace original_ ," whines the Vreeland girl for the fiftieth time. "Do you have any idea how impossible it is to get rust stains out of a _Versace_?"

"Easier than getting a bullet out of your head?" mutters Ryerstad, who has been pacing impatiently around the huddled prisoners for the last twenty minutes. "Stan, hurry _up_."

"I do explosives, man, not TV cameras," growls Stan from the other side of the warehouse, where he has his hands full setting up the video equipment. Bruce assumes a live broadcast of demands is imminent. He hopes they've scripted it beforehand, or else it will be an exceptionally long night.

"A-are you going to kill us?" whimpers the Hill man.

"Oh God oh God," says the rotund Fallbrook woman.

"My dress!" moans the Vreeland girl.

"Should have gagged them," Bruce says helpfully.

"Shut up," Ryerstad says, waving his gun in their faces. "All of you, just _shut up_! This is your own fault, you know! Waving your money around, buying off the cops, masterminding the crime in this city, while the people who depend on you waste away in all the filth and corruption! It's time someone taught you the meaning of justice!"

"By breaking the law?" says Bruce. "Interesting sense of justice."

Ryerstad turns on his heel and points the gun at Bruce's forehead. "The cops forgot what real justice is a long time ago, old man. I'm just reminding them. Reminding all of you."

"And what's he doing?" Bruce nods toward Stan, who is cursing loudly and tripping over wires.

Ryerstad's face falls momentarily. "He's – uh – being my henchman."

Bruce smirks. "Only villains have henchmen."

Ryerstad draws himself up to his full height and puffs out his chest so that the letters on his shirt spelling out "Nite-Wing" are particularly visible. "I'm not a villain. I'm a vigilante."

Bruce's smirk widens. "Sure you are."

"Anyway," Ryerstad continues, "All the vigilantes have hench – er, sidekicks. Green Arrow had Speedy, Aquaman had Aqualad, Batman had –"

A dark figure bursts through the warehouse skylight just then, spraying them all with shattered glass. The Vreeland girl squeals loudly, Stan lets out a shout, and the silhouette of a bat appears against the nearly full moon for a split second before it drops to the floor.

"Batman!" says Ryerstad.

"They always act like they're surprised, don't they?" comments someone at Bruce's elbow.

"You're late," says Bruce.

"You're welcome," says the voice, and he feels the ropes around his wrists loosen.

Bruce grunts and watches Ryerstad and Stan close in on an extremely unperturbed McGinnis - Batman. "Did I always look that…theatrical?" he asks suddenly.

"Just be thankful you weren't wearing the green shorts."

"Those were your idea, if I recall correctly."

"You don't."

"Um…excuse me?" says the willowy Van Dorn man. "Are you here to rescue us?"

"No," says Dick. "But _he_ is."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terry looks at the tear-streaked faces, the firmly-set jawlines, the mud-splattered outfits and disheveled hair. "This isn't what I do," he says.

**XI.**

Okay, so the entrance was a bit much. If the rich folks are digging glass shards out of their hair for the next few hours, well…at least they're not digging out bullets. Terry's man enough to admit when he's gone a little overboard. He's also man enough to admit that it's a good thing this cowl dramatically minimizes his facial expressions, because the way Ryerstad is looking at him is, quite frankly, freaking him out.

" _You'll_ understand what I'm trying to do," Ryerstad is saying, eyes wide, looking at Terry like a little kid sizing up his Christmas stocking. Terry's always thought crooks were supposed to fear Batman, not fanboy him. This gig is just full of surprises.

"I understand you're taking your show a little outside your neighborhood, Ryerstad," Terry says. "Kidnapping charges in Blüdhaven not enough for you?"

Ryerstad looks confused, and Terry hasn't even hit him yet. "This isn't kidnapping, Batman."

"Really?" says Terry. He eyes the corner of the room, where Grayson and Wayne are untying the extremely rumpled-looking elite. "What do _you_ call tying up a bunch of rich folks and carting them around town in the middle of the night?"

Ryerstad's pout is even more annoying than Matt's, and not nearly as cute. "They're the bad guys, Batman! Everything going on in the 'Haven – the corruption, the crime – you can trace it all back to them, and the people like them. Gotham's just the same, haven't you noticed? Wayne and that Powers guy own this town, and people are getting away with murder. Because they're rich. Because they have the power. The cops aren't helping, the government's shot to hell, and it's not fair. Someone has to stand up to them. Someone has to make an example. Someone has to take the law into their own hands." Ryerstad's eyes are a weird shade of pathetic ferocity. "I'm only doing the same thing you do."

Terry looks at the tear-streaked faces, the firmly-set jawlines, the mud-splattered outfits and disheveled hair. "This isn't what I do," he says.

Ryerstad frowns, suddenly more than a little petulant. "You're all the same, aren't you, with your stupid spandex costumes and your lame propaganda? You say you're going to protect the people, but all you do is form your little clubs and act like you're all above it, while people are stealing and dying and you don't do a damned thing about it!" He raises his gun so that it's pointing directly at Terry's face. "You're the disease," he says in a low, dangerous voice. "And I'm the cure."

"Not today," Terry says, and lets a Batarang fly at Ryerstad's wrist.

Might have been a bit more productive if he'd factored in total pandemonium.

The Batarang knocks the gun out of Ryerstad's hand, but Terry only gets a split second to see him hopping around, cursing and holding his injured wrist, before something enormous tackles Terry to the ground. Terry tries to control the roll but realizes too late that they're headed straight toward the line of prisoners who, helpfully, have started screaming their heads off and scrambling to get out of the way.

Terry ends up on the ground near the wall with Stan on top of him, huge fists around his throat, pleasantly having the life choked out of him. Through a haze of air deprivation and a soundtrack of squealing rich idiots, Terry notices Grayson crouched less than a foot away from him, grimacing and pulling his gun out of nowhere. Neat trick. "I'm on Ryerstad," he says under his breath to Terry, who considers mentioning something along the lines of, Hello, being strangled here, but even as he begins to get his mouth around the words, Grayson's sprinted away. Well goddamn the previous generation, leaving everything to the kids of today. Luckily, Terry's up to it.

Focused as Stan is on crushing Batman's trachea, he doesn't notice when Terry manages to pull out another Batarang, squirm a bit to get a good angle, and slam it into his leg. In fact, it takes a good five seconds before Stan realizes something is wrong, loosens his grip on Terry's neck, and looks down at his bleeding leg in surprise. He blinks stupidly, then lets out an ear-splitting howl – but by then Terry has rolled a safe distance away.

The situation isn't looking good. Terry can see Wayne trying to usher the frightened ex-prisoners out of the warehouse, but they're too hysterical to really listen to him, despite how much he's waving around his cane and looking menacing. Meanwhile Grayson and Ryerstad, looking a little worse for wear after a bit of a tussle, have reached a standoff: Ryerstad, having retrieved his gun, is pointing it in Grayson's face, and Grayson is returning the favor.

"Come down all the way from the 'Haven to bring me in, Officer?" Ryerstad is saying, his face contorted into a sneer. "Couldn't catch me yourself, and now you need a bat to help, is that it?"

"Put the gun down, and I won't have to add armed assault to your already impressive rap sheet," says Grayson. Terry is a little surprised to hear the edge in his voice.

Ryerstad laughs humorlessly. "What about the right to bear arms? You cops, always running around with your guns, like it gives you some kinda privilege over the rest of us –"

"Nothing gives you the right to kill," says Grayson, and Terry realizes his gun is cocked and ready to fire. Okay, now there's a contradiction, to talk about not killing when it's looking an awful lot like Grayson is about to blow someone's head off.

Ryerstad's eyes narrow. "I haven't killed anyone."

"Sergeant Amy Rohbach, Blüdhaven PD. Ring a bell?"

Personal vendetta. This just keeps getting better.

Ryerstad considers. "Not really."

Grayson's frown gets uglier. "She was on duty the last night you were booked down in Blüdhaven. You decided you had other places to be. She disagreed with your plans, so you stole another cop's gun and shot her in the head. She had a husband and two kids."

Ryerstad shrugs. "She shouldn't have gotten in the way."

Okay, that's quite enough of _that_. Terry pulls out another Batarang and throws it in an arc so that it knocks the guns out of both men's hands. He's even got a good quip on the tip of his tongue, but he has to settle for biting it when Stan bowls him over yet again and sends them flying across the room.

"Think you can beat me, Batman?" Stan roars in his ear.

"That's the plan, yeah," Terry grunts, struggling against the massive arms that are wrapped around him from behind. This is getting really old really fast, and it's not nearly as interesting as keeping Grayson from shooting people. Terry flicks a switch and his boots ignite, shooting them over to the wall. Stan, caught between Batman and a hard place, smacks his head on concrete and crumples to the ground, down for the count.

Ryerstad and Grayson have resorted to fists, and Grayson appears to be winning, though they're both looking a bit bloodied for their efforts. Ryerstad's vicious, kicking and throwing his fists around wherever he thinks he can get a hit; Grayson, on the other hand, is agile and quick, parrying and punching with fluid motions, like it's a game he's got all the time in the world to win. Pretty impressive for an old guy. Not that Terry's about to tell him that.

Still, better to pull apart the bullies, since there are hostages to save and goons to lock up. Terry uses the jets to hustle on over and take Ryerstad out of the ring. He barely misses Grayson's fist as he shoves Ryerstad away.

"Stay out of this," Grayson hisses at him.

"Sorry, not in the job description," says Terry. "And seriously, stop trying to shoot people on my watch."

"I wasn't going to shoot him," mutters Grayson.

"Right, that's why you had the gun ready to fire."

" _Move_."

Generally Terry doesn't pay much attention in physics, but he's fairly certain that, with Grayson on one side of him and Ryerstad on the other, the bolt he's just heard being expelled from Ryerstad's gun ought to hit Terry in the back. So when he finds himself still standing, albeit shoved to one side, he has to remember to breathe, which he's heard from health class can help one's brain function. He's not really thinking about much of anything, but his body's on self-assured autopilot, and he realizes he's just thrown another Batarang and knocked the gun out of Ryerstad's hand. The gun hits the ground with a loud clank and slides across the floor and out of reach.

Still not really tracking well, Terry turns and sees that the reason he doesn't currently have a hole in his back is that Grayson is on the ground with a hole in his chest.

"Shit," Terry says.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting in a hospital waiting room with an impatient, nervous sixteen-year-old boy is not Bruce's idea of a good time.

**XII.**

Bruce doesn't like hospitals. He is perfectly happy to donate money to them on occasion, and he even pretends to appreciate it when they name wings after him at expansive galas commemorating his donation (even though said wings are invariably called the Wayne Wing, which is entirely too much alliteration to be taken seriously). But when it comes to the actual practice of medicine in these halls that smell like antiseptic and fear, Bruce thinks he could more than do without. He longs for the days when there were no sissy pills to take or nurses to answer to; just Alfred with a needle and thread and a cutting quip or two to which Bruce always pretended not to be paying any attention.

Waiting in a hospital waiting room with an impatient, nervous sixteen-year-old boy is not Bruce's idea of a good time. McGinnis has been pacing ever since they got here, and Bruce is torn between the need to reassure him and the need to strangle him. Terry has not actually said a word, but Bruce knows a thing or two about compulsive pacing and the feeling of responsibility when someone is injured during a case.

The doctor, a slim Indian woman who walks with an air of calm self-assurance, enters the waiting room from the bowels of the sterile inner hospital. Bruce looks up and watches her approach, trying to gauge the severity of the news by her gait; but she's done this too many times to be so easily read. Or maybe he's just getting soft.

Terry stops his pacing and comes to sit awkwardly next to Bruce. He doesn't say anything, but his agitation is apparent.

The doctor addresses Bruce. "That was a nasty business, Mr. Wayne," she says. "A quarter of an inch closer to the heart, and…." She shrugs, then smiles slightly. "He'll be all right now. He's a tough one."

"That he is," says Bruce, surprised by the pride in his own voice. He looks over at Terry, who is very purposefully not looking back, although Bruce can see he's relaxes his shoulders ever so slightly and doesn't seem quite as inclined to pace about futilely anymore.

"You can see him if you'd like," says the doctor to Bruce. She quirks an eyebrow. "I'd suggest you encourage him to retire while he still can."

"With all due respect for this establishment, I'd rather not be spending the night in the ICU myself," says Bruce dryly. He uses his cane to help himself to his feet. "Coming, Terry?" he asks mildly when the boy doesn't move.

Terry shakes himself. "What? Oh, no. You go have a moment or whatever."

Bruce leaves Terry sitting in the waiting room and follows a nurse down the hall. Through the open doorway Bruce can see Dick lying in the bed, hooked up to all manner of machines but, for all that, looking as though he could very easily get up and take a walk in the park.

"Hey, old man," Dick calls. His voice is thick and tired, but he's making a real effort to sound much perkier than a man who just took a gunshot to the chest should sound.

The nurse leaves, and Bruce sits down on a chair next to Dick's bed, giving him a quick once-over and determining that, while he may not still have the resilience of an adolescent boy, Dick still mends quickly – at least on the outside.

For a few moments they sit in what could not, in any stretch of the imagination, be called comfortable silence.

"Looks like you're still in one piece," Bruce says at last. It's not at all what he wanted to say.

"The kid, too," says Dick. "Though I notice you didn't drag him in here with you."

"He's waiting outside," Bruce says. "Been pacing for the last two hours."

Dick laughs, then winces at the pain in his chest. "I know a guy who can out-pace him in a heartbeat," he says.

They fall silent again. Bruce can hear a lone bird somewhere outside the window, chirping away in the sunlight, which falls in bars of light and shadow on the bed.

"Ryerstad and Stan have been booked," Bruce tells Dick. "I doubt they'll be causing any more trouble for awhile."

"But not long a while." Dick looks over at him and smiles in a charmingly lopsided manner. "It's never a long while, is it?"

"No," Bruce agrees. "The job's never quite done."

"Even after you are."

Bruce looks sternly at Dick, who waves a hand feebly. "It was only a matter of time, Bruce. You were the only one who thought you'd be doing it forever."

Bruce smirks. "The doctor told me to tell you to retire while you still can."

Dick snorts. "Doesn't look like it's been doing much for you." Then his face grows serious. "Bruce, listen, I know why –"

"You don't," says Bruce curtly. "I don't even know why I took him in."

"Really? After all these years? After me and Jason and Tim and Barbara, you still don't know?" Dick half-smiles at Bruce's scowl. "We all know why you did it, and you do, too. It's not because it's a war, even though it is. It's not because you got old, although you did. Think about it, old man: a guy out for revenge, a real loner, who takes in a bunch of kids and makes them into some sort of family? A guy doesn't do that for no reason at all."

Bruce knows what he's supposed to say – that he was lonely, that he needed someone outside himself to think about, to care about, to love. It's one thing to dress up like a bat and fight crime because you're pissed off at the miscreant who killed your parents; it's another to actively seek out others who have had similar experiences and give them suits to wear, Kevlar to protect against bullets, masks to protect against acknowledging the wrong identity, a duty to protect against a feeling of helplessness. The world isn't any different now than it was all those years ago when he saw something terrifying in the window and knew that terror was what would ultimately bring him peace.

Bruce looks at Dick and Dick looks at him, and it's a testament to the whole thing that even now, as out of practice as they are, neither of them has to say a thing.

Dick, of course, always had a way of saying what doesn't need to be said, and lying shot up in a hospital bed just this side of the morgue isn't about to deter him. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Bruce shakes his head and shuffles to his feet with more trouble than he'd care to admit. "It's not necessary," he says stiffly.

"No," Dick agrees, "it isn't. But I am. Sorry, that is. About a lot of things."

Bruce smirks. "But not everything."

Dick laughs a little despite the pain. "No, not everything," he says, grinning or grimacing, Bruce isn't really sure which.

Bruce walks over to the door, puts his hand on it, then pauses. He finds himself wanting to say something, nearly thirty years' worth of something, but it gets stuck in his throat, and he remembers that he was never any good at this kind of thing, anyway. "I'm glad you're all right," he says, though it's not enough, not at all what he wanted to say, but it will have to do for now.

"You, too," Dick says. He doesn't add anything trite about doing dinner sometime or trying to visit more often, but all the same Bruce finds himself feeling better about things than he has in a long time.

Bruce turns, pushes open the door, and steps aside just in time to let Terry fall into the room flat on his face.

"Amateur," Bruce snorts, stepping over him and walking away down the hall.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But it's not really _becoming_ him, is it?" Terry says, not quite realizing he's thinking out loud. "I mean, sure, there's the urban legend and all that, but you're basically just a guy in a dopey suit. It's what you do with it that matters."

**XIII.**

Terry wonders what you're supposed to say to a guy who just took a bullet for you and at whose door you've been eavesdropping. Somehow, "Gee, thanks for saving my life and sorry about invading your privacy," doesn't quite cut it. Particularly when the guy doing the saving is a pain in the ass who is currently looking at you like he wants to laugh in your face, but the sutures are keeping him from getting on with it.

Getting to his feet and rubbing his head sheepishly, Terry walks over to the side of the bed, sits in the visitor's chair, and feels like a complete idiot for about thirty seconds which feel an awful lot more like thirty thousand years. He's actually about to resort to mentioning the weather when Grayson gets it into his head to say something.

"I wore the suit for awhile," he says in about the same tone you'd use to talk about how much rain there's been lately.

It takes Terry a moment to realize what he's saying. "You mean -?"

Grayson smirks. "Yeah. Bruce was injured, and we weren't sure he'd ever…well. There has to be a Batman, right? So I did it."

"Makes sense," says Terry. "You being his son and all."

Grayson's eyes get hard for a moment before he's able to stifle it. "I wasn't the first one he asked," he says.

Terry frowns. "Who else -?"

Grayson shakes his head slightly. "It's a long story. Anyway, that suit…it's not the same one you've got now, of course, but there was something about it. The way it makes you feel. It's not like being Robin or Nightwing or any other costumed vigilante. When you put that thing on, you become _him_."

Terry isn't sure who Grayson means by "him" – Bruce? Batman? That creepy thing in the dark that sends a shiver down the spine of any evildoer who sees it? It's hooey, banking on the superstition of a flying rodent and a few well-placed shadows; but Terry's seen how it works, and, though he doesn't want to admit it, he knows exactly what Grayson is talking about. The suit is power, the sort most sixteen-year-old kids never even get close to having.

"But it's not really _becoming_ him, is it?" Terry says, not quite realizing he's thinking out loud. "I mean, sure, there's the urban legend and all that, but you're basically just a guy in a dopey suit. It's what you do with it that matters." He looks Grayson full on in the face. "Yeah, okay, so you wore the suit; but you weren't him – you were just you, getting the job done the way you knew how to do it." The dangerous, reckless way that gets you shot and nearly killed while trying to save a punk kid you don't even like.

But, Terry reflects, it's what he would've done. What Batman would've done. In the end, they're all just doing what they think needs doing. The suit's just an excuse.

Grayson smiles at him – a real smile, not loaded or anything, just straight-forward, no strings attached. "You're all right, kid," he says.

Terry makes a face. "Worth getting shot for?" he asks, immediately wishing he hadn't.

Grayson laughs, wincing slightly at the pain but doing it anyway. "Sure. I don't let myself get shot just for anybody, you know."

"You get shot a lot?" Terry asks, raising an eyebrow.

Grayson shrugs. "Yeah, well, it comes with the job."

"How about learning to duck? That come with the job, too?"

Grayson raises an eyebrow back. "Don't push it; I don't like you that much."

"It's mutual," says Terry, but he's grinning, and Grayson is, too.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue.**

"So what's he like?"

"A royal pain in the ass."

"In other words, exactly what Bruce needs."

"But not what _I_ need. Did I tell you I got shot?"

"Only about five times in the last three minutes."

"Yeah, well…it hurt."

"All right, old man, go take another Tylenol and we'll talk some other time."

"That reminds me: I've been meaning to tell you - You're not funny at all."

"I'm not paid to be funny."

"I'm not paying you."

"My point exactly."

"Anyway, he's rash, outspoken, and might have a damn good head on his shoulders if he'd ever actually use it."

"In other words, he reminds you of yourself."

"Actually…I was thinking he's more like Jason."

"…Oh."

"Not that I think he's going to get himself killed. Well, not in the same way, at least. I mean, he talks back to Bruce and wants to do things his own way, but he doesn't take stupid chances. Without a good reason. Usually."

"A ringing endorsement, that is."

"It's just that he's not the Boy Scout you were."

"Look who's talking, Mr. I'll-Drop-Everything-And-Run-In-From-Blüdhaven- At-A-Moment's-Notice."

"Hey, it was a case!"

"I'm not talking about this time."

"Look, do you want to hear about the kid or not?"

"Just tell me if you think it's going to work."

"Well, if Bruce hasn't thrown him out yet, and if McGinnis can put up with the old man…More power to 'em, I guess."

"Why do you think Bruce gave him the suit?"

"You mean because it went so well the other times he's had someone else wear it?"

"Dick –"

"No, I know. It's weird. It's not like Bruce has given up the identity – you and I both know hell will freeze over before that happens – but…maybe he's finally ready to pass it on. At least part of it. Maybe he was just impressed the kid figured him out. I've heard figuring stuff out landed someone a stint as Robin in the past."

"Cute. So he's got your seal of approval?"

"Maybe. But I still think someone should keep an eye on him."

"Thus the call to me. Listen, if he finds out, he's not going to be very happy."

"Hey, aren't you the one who sees all and knows all and never leaves a trace? So he won't know. And like hell you haven't had the cave monitored for years, anyway."

"Ever the dutiful son, spying on the old man and his new errand boy. All right, I'll do it, but only because it's fun to see you so disgustingly jealous."

"Am not. And it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"Oh look, it's the JLA on the other line."

"Right. Listen, Tim…."

"I know. They'll be fine."

"And if they're not…you'll call me?"

"You know, Bruce might call you."

"Yeah, and the crime rate in Gotham and Blüdhaven might reach zero this year."

"Point. I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

"Take it easy, bro. Oracle out."


End file.
